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Top 40

Top 40 is a music industry shorthand for the currently most-popular songs in a particular genre. When used without qualification it refers to the best-selling or most frequently broadcast popular music. The term is derived from record music charts, a few of which traditionally consist of a total of 40 songs. Top 40 is also an alternative term for the radio format of such music, also known as Contemporary hit radio.

History

The term "Top 40" for a radio format appeared in 1960. The Top 40, whether surveyed by a radio station or a publication, was a list of songs that shared only the common characteristic of being newly released. Its introduction coincided with a transition from the old ten-inch shellac 78 rpm record format for single "pop" recordings to the seven-inch vinyl 45 rpm format, introduced in 1949, which was outselling it by 1954 and soon replaced it completely. The Top 40 thereafter became a survey of the popularity of 45 rpm singles and their airplay on the radio. Some nationally syndicated radio shows, like American Top 40, featured a countdown of the forty highest ranked songs on a particular music or entertainment publication. Although such publications often listed more than 40 charted hits, such as the Billboard Hot 100, time constraints allowed for the airing of only forty songs; hence, the term "top 40" gradually became part of the vernacular associated with popular music.

The term "top 40" is also used to refer to the actual list of hit songs, and, by extension, to refer to pop music in general. The term has also been modified to describe top 50; top 30; top 20; top 10; hot 100 (each with its number of songs) and hot hits radio formats, but carrying more or less the same meaning and having the same creative point of origin with Todd Storz as further refined by Gordon McLendon as well as Bill Drake. The format became especially popular in the sixties as radio stations constrained disc jockeys to numbered play lists in the wake of the payola scandal.

40-40

[Intro: Joe Budden]Welcome to the 40/40!There's an age limit and dress a code.No 80 year old rappers...And no muhfucking... wallet chains and tight pants and colorful fucking shirts!And don't come naked though, hahahahah![Royce Da 5'9":]That motherfucking beef ain't new to us! (whoooo!) Get off my computer nutsBefore I go Freddie Foxx from the Flavor Unit bus!Plus, you know my La Costra NostraI stretch a nigga out like he Rosa Acosta!Nope, you blew it! — I'm a boxer I could mop a lame"Oh, Let's Do It"! I hit you with the Waka Flocka (Flame!)I don't need backing, so there's no need for Shady (uh-huh!)There's no need for police, your homies, your lady! (HOE!)We can lace them up, Paperview, however you wanna doAnd then donate all the proceeds to Haiti! (whooo!)Your man's major!I keep a hitman with me that done took more people than Fantasia! [gunshots] (uhh!)I'm bonkers, I'm cuckoo! I'm beyond gonzo (cuckooooooooooooooooooooooo!)The rocket launcher is like part of my ensemble! (hahaha!)On top of that — I got niggas in Boston who got my backAnd later on assist me like Rajon Rondo! (whoo!)So fuck peace!The day I quit beefin'be the same day I grow a hangnail on my buttcheek!My momma got fangs, my daddy got ducks feet!I was genetically predisposed to fuck freaks!I'm like my nigga Joe B.!I ain't worry about the win as long as I get the girl in the end! (girl in the end!) (Hoe!)Y'all niggas be dead, if looks could killMy money taller than y'all; y'all spending Bushwick Bills,And y'all ghetto! (and y'all ghetto!) - Squeezing — you weak when I spark metal (whoo!)You leaking, therefore you're squeaking to falsetto!My shit is nothing like you heard beforeGet it, right? My shit is knocking like our words be doors!We can fight! (hahaha!) — That's right, put your dukes upAnd let you fist pump - like you on the Jersey Shore! (Jersey Shore!)Paranoia is my normal activity, I ghost you!Have you seeing "Paranormal Activity"? I roast you!When he rhyming (whoooo!) off the pa-tron! - You might wanna keep trying!He will burn you like Penny's mama offa Good Times!I fly and shit! - But grounded like the Gaza Strip!But let's be honest, I'm surrounded by a thousand tits!I claimed the town before I give you lames the crownYou'll get it soon as Snoop gains a pound,Hahaha! - We too vicious, plus we got pits in the back an'"Dirty Money" like them two bitches Puffy jacked! (Whooooooo-Aaaahhhhhhhhhh!)[Joe Budden:]Livin' off interest! - Stock exchange!But I'm watchin lames whos interest is wallet chains!What part of the game is this - bunch of dicks in the studioSo I take mine elsewhere, I'm Rick Rubio!Homie make sure you speak to me soberOne in the head - heat in holster don't care if you crossCountry! (yeah!) - I'm there before the weekend's overAnd you'll be (YOU'LL BE!) swingin' at the air - no Wii controller!But I don't care to speak on chromeHard to not live a movie when you got theater seats at home!No wonder she wanna chill, seat back with her friendsShe seen when I dump boo I let her keep that Benz!Dick got 'em actin' like they on a relapse binge!Start kickin' my door down like I don't need that hinge!The realest to ever do it, he a must in the game (game!)If you don't get the picture then readjust the frame! (Talk to 'em!)It's simple mathematics, Einstein!Learnt to walk a fine line off that battle shit, it's grind time! (grind time!)Rap for hire! Call me if help is needed!I got this whole shit covered - Darrelle Revis! (AAAAAAAAAAGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!)So if you lookin for me,I'm relaxing with a bird on Hell's Kitchen, asking for dessert! ('ey, 'ey!)So when I'm recordin' dummies become nonimportantThey think the Book of Eli was written by Tom Coughlin!I ain't with the trash talkin', that's distortion! (that's distortion!)Mass extortion! - All of your raps is appallin! (Nigga!)Want see me dead?I'll invite 'em to the funeral and they can keep the stains off my glass coffin! (Glass coffin!)Yep it's Joe, irregular flow!If your ones ain't Gayle King right next to a "O"!It's not a thing, just lie! Be the next to blowI don't need a private jet, just a window seat, exit row!And if I decide to peel arms - I'm interruptingWith no pardon! - I ain't Mike Wilbon!From day one, he just speak his mindCause looseleafs don't come with subtitles, can't read between the lines!But think anybody on your TV beIn your top of elite three, then see see me!5th gear! - We kickin' up dust mothafucka! (DUST MOTHAFUCKA!)We only competin' with us mothafucka! (FLOCKA!)[Outro: Joe Budden]Hope everybody had a good time out there!Huh?The...No entry allowed if you got the fake diamonds on neither!You can fool the bitches, you can't fool us!The light hit it different!Make sure there's fucking laces in your shoes too!Not all the funny shit with the straps!We ain't 5, aight?And bring a notebook!Learn something nigga!Huh?You fuck of a fuck nigga you!Hehh!You a un-fuckable fuck nigga, man!Who's your fucking hair stylist?Hehehehe!Hey!Don't talk to me if you got a hair stylist!Better have a barber!Nigga!Hehe!Happy new year!We only exuding positive energy!Slaughterhouse!One more thing... check it!